“You needn’t worry,” he reassured her. “You’ll become well acquainted with it all soon enough. As well as the other bookshops in Portugal and the news kiosks and stationery shops.” He held up a hand to the waiter in a departing farewell and led her from the café.
She joined him. “Stationery shops?”
“You’d be surprised how many gems are lurking among stacks of paper and cups full of pens.” He continued looking forward as they walked, but spoke in a lower, quieter tone. “It would appear the police have caught on to your presence.”
“What?” The word came out in far more of a squeak than she’d anticipated.
“Don’t look,” he warned.
She stopped midturn and fixed her gaze straight ahead as he did.
He winced slightly. “Maybe laugh or something of the like as though I’ve said something witty. To keep from being so terribly obvious.”
Ava forced a laugh, grateful she had not fully turned around before his warning. She really was a terrible spy.
“If anyone asks, you are simply an American librarian.” He maintained the pace he’d set before, but now the casual stroll seemed far too slow with the stares of the police burning at her back.
“But I am an American librarian,” she hissed.
He winked. “Exactly.” Indicating to a store located at the corner of a large building, he beamed. “Ah, here we are now.”
Blue and white tiles adorned its walls, a tradition in Portugal known as azulejos. Were they not being followed by the police, Ava might have leaned closer to examine the glossy surface to see if pin-sized holes dotted the glaze suggesting the tiles were made prior to modern advancements.
She must still have paused somewhat as James’s hand caught the crook of her elbow and half tugged, half nudged her into the shop. Inside, a man wearing a dark suit looked up. His stare lingered too long to be innocent before he turned to the side. Apprehension prickled over her skin.
“This way.” James led her deeper into the store and her entire focus became the splendor that was the Livraria Bertrand.
Books layered wooden shelves from the ground all the way up to the striated-brick ceiling rising above them.
“We can only look for now,” James cautioned. “Best to wait until we lose our new friends before engaging in any purchases.”
Ava scarcely heard him. Her gaze was running over the outward facing spines, the titles all in Portuguese. Even still, her mind tried to coax out the meanings, as if she could will them into translation. Suddenly, she could read the words and realized they were in French. And then in German. Then several more she could not discern. Polish, perhaps?
In that moment, she had a profound desperation to not only be fluent in Portuguese, but also in Polish. And Russian. And Greek. And all the other languages that appeared to be represented on those crowded shelves of the Livraria.
Her fingertip settled on a copy of La Séquestrée de Poitiers by André Gide, one of the many authors whose works the Nazis banned from Germany. A sudden need to draw the book to her chest nearly overwhelmed her, to cradle it to her bosom protectively like a child. To keep the text from those who would let flames lick over it until the pages curled into brittle, flaking ash. She pulled its edge to bring it toward her from the stack. The books were so tightly packed together that several others on either side flexed forward as well, nearly tumbling from the shelf.
“Did you hear me?” James asked.
She just managed to catch the remaining books and ease them back into place after liberating Gide’s works. “What?”
“We ought to consider an abrupt departure.” He slid a discreet glance toward the man at the door.
She hugged the novel. Surely one book wouldn’t compromise them.